


Prize and Prudence

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Money
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:02:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre acquires 700 francs and is at a loss at how to spend it. Enjolras's attempt at help is more successful than he thought it could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prize and Prudence

Anyone who knew one Combeferre of Poitiers would have happily divulged that his many exploits in data collection were made without the desire for recognition. Combeferre sought truth for truth’s sake, which was why it made him profoundly uneasy when his faded blue coat was suddenly worth 700 francs.

He walked the length of the Fabourg Saint Germain, skittish and grim as his hand pressed against the burden in his coat. The coins jingled at each step, every soft note announcing to the howling streets that the passing medical student was a very important man. Combeferre scanned the boulevards as he crossed them, but as his eyes were kept to the front, his feet were left blind, and soon enough, he had stumbled over a pair of zealous chickens. The chickens were not pleased, and along with their clucking came the clarity of mind that Combeferre needed to make sense of the morning’s events.

He had only just entered the Jardin des Plantes, eager for the fourth of the nine lectures to be given that season, when one of the patrons beckoned him over with a wide grin. Combeferre recognized Monsieur Reyer, and out of respect for the former professor, he turned in his tracks and ambled towards him, each step compounding his curiosity. Not long after, Monsieur Reyer was patting him on the shoulder, showering him with compliments, and presenting him to his colleagues as the forerunner in this year’s aspiring empiricists.

“It began to occur to me that I had won a contest of some sort,” Combeferre narrated to Enjolras over tea. They were seated by the table, Combeferre morosely leaning back as Enjolras examined the rim of his hat. It had been left beside the wash stand in his previous visit, and water stains showed on the edges. “One day, I thought of cross-pollinating a rare spineless cacti with a more common spiny cacti to produce a common variant of spineless cacti. It was a random notion, and I’d scribbled it somewhere and forgotten about it.” Combeferre gave a mild shrug. “About a month ago, I found the note again and decided to procure a batch of Mexican prickly pears and the more common Indian figs to test the hypothesis. I was lucky in finding samples so quickly.”

Enjolras’s nose crinkled over the rim of his tea. “By any chance, were these samples procured from the window of a certain poet?”

Combeferre made a flippant wave, and his voice grew stronger as he recounted the specifics of his study. “It turned out that my hypothesis was correct, that it was possible to produce a common variant of spineless cacti, and that this new variant could be used as cattle food in periods of extremely dry weather. There is always a disturbing lack of hay in the summer, and spineless cacti can be used as its substitute.” Combeferre beamed at this happy thought. “After the experiment, I scrawled the results in a few scraps of paper and handed it over to Monsieur Reyer for his thoughts.”

Enjolras nodded at this, briefly remembering Combeferre working on the piece, completely oblivious to his rowdy surroundings. He particularly remembered Bahorel distracting him with tales of his newest pair of drawers. Combeferre had made a quick and cool rebuff, which in turn had made Bahorel stomp to a corner and regale a flustered Feuilly instead. Enjolras took this as a sign that he ought not be disturbed, and for the rest of the night, sat beside him like a silent sentinel. He had made conversation a few times, though he restrained himself from mentioning that the paper Combeferre used was not Matelote’s grocery list, but Joly and Bossuet’s latest literary masterpiece.

Monsieur Reyer must have been highly amused.

“I hadn’t expected the good professor to forward my results to the Société botanique,” Combeferre continued. “He submitted it under my name, and by virtue of being published, I am now the recipient of 700 francs.”

He nodded as he finished his story, and with a newfound determination, sipped his steaming tea. The liquid flowed through Combeferre’s parched throat and made his shoulders uncoil, but the frown on his face told Enjolras that the issue was far from resolved.

“What’s the matter then?” he asked.

“What am I to do with 700 francs?”

Anyone who knew one Enjolras of Marseilles would have happily divulged that he was not the best person to ask about these sort of things.

— - —

In the end, they resolved to ask Combeferre’s mother. Voices of each other’s reason that they were, they had quickly realized that they were ill-equipped to come up with a sound decision. When it came to financial matters, a bachelor in Paris was careless, a student bachelor in Paris was unrepentant, and a student bachelor in Paris engaging in events of minor dissent was too preoccupied to consider matters of less import.

Unless one was Bahorel. Who, despite his reckless and riotous nature, was entirely clear-headed in his expenditures.

But they could hardly bother Bahorel, so it was to Combeferre’s mother that they had deferred judgement. Combeferre wrote her a short missive, and true to her reputation as a reliable correspondent, she had sent off a reply a week later.

Combeferre and Enjolras had both been reading on the floor, sitting amiably at both sides of the burning hearth. They had done this numerous times, and occasionally, Enjolras would recline against the arm chair, and his fingers would pass along the growing stack of books beside him. His forefinger would skim and stop at the spine of a thick one, bound in red leather with gold impressions, and would begin to tap a gentle rhythm. Combeferre noticed the habit when it began, and he would stare at his friend fondly while guessing the tune playing in his head. Once it was a song Grantaire had been singing, once it was La Marseillaise, but before he could determine it this time, the porter knocked on his door. Combeferre muttered an apology and hastened to take the letter. After inspecting the address in the envelope, he made for his writing desk to retrieve a knife. Enjolras followed him with his eyes, and by the sudden alertness in Combeferre’s expression, reasoned whom the letter was from. He remained absorbed in his book, but his ears were attuned to Combeferre’s every word as he read.

“Mother does not advise sending the money back home,” Combeferre began, all too aware of Enjolras’s feigned indifference. “She also says that it was very cruel of me to use Prouvaire’s cacti without his permission, and that if I had any good conscience left, I would at least use part of the money to compensate him for his sorrow.”

Enjolras raised his book to hide the grin on his face. “Is that all?”

Combeferre shot him an amused glare. “She assures me that the farm is well, that my brother is taking to his studies, and that–” the left side of his lip curled slightly “–should a handsome friend of mine wish to visit our home again, he is welcome to do so, provided that he shall be as eager a guest as the last time he graced us with his company.”  
Enjolras visibly blanched, and he raised the book higher to hide his mortification. He was not averse to Madame Combeferre’s cooking, but despite his indifferent opinion towards food, he was fairly sure that a single man could never eat apple pie, apple cake, apple-glazed chicken, apple roast, apple toast, apple sauce meatloaf, and apple strudel in the course of one day. Combeferre had pleaded with him to taste everything, and it had resulted in a very uncomfortable ride back to Paris.

Enjolras mumbled something about “the hour growing late”, and he hastily put on his hat to hide the red tinge that he knew would be in his ears. He gave one last advice as he left the threshold: “Perhaps you should ask Bahorel.”

— - —

The next time that they discussed it, they had almost raised voices.

The drop of soap threatened to trickle inside his shirt when Enjolras swiped it with practiced precision. The blade glided across his pale neck, deft and suddenly graceful under his hands. Combeferre once told him that he resembled a conductor, that if he were to swap the razor with a baton, he could have looked a proper master of music. He found no amusement in the comparison, and his lips had closed to a tight, thin line. He had the same expression now, ill-advised when it came to shaving, but instead of confusion, the intensity in his face was brought on by deep consideration. Combeferre’s proposal seemed sound, delivered with a casual air and a confidence in his eventual agreement, but it had made Enjolras’s insides coil with distaste.

He wiped the razor with a clean cloth and made sure that he released it before he could respond. The blade glinted in the late afternoon light as he set it down. Enjolras took one slow breath and said, “No.”

From the table, the sounds of cutlery paused.

“What do you mean?” Combeferre straightened as he turned to Enjolras. Two steaming cups of tea already graced his arrangement, and Enjolras contemplated them as he wiped the last vestiges of soap from his neck. “Because the money is yours, Combeferre, and should be used for your own purposes.”

“Precisely,” Combeferre countered. “You’re well aware that for weeks now, I’ve been trying to convince the artists at the Barrier du Maine to share their gunpowder. To no avail.” His lips grew thin in contemplation. “The artists grow idle in their studios, they waste themselves in drink, they put me off with talks of dominoes. And when I hint at their lack of enthusiasm, they accuse me of mistrust.” Combeferre let out an aggravated huff. “I am aware that at the ideal, our alliances must be forged with mutual sympathies, not business transactions, but don’t you agree that a show of coin will hasten our negotiations?”

“If the artists were truly our friends, then they will share their gunpowder willingly, or trade them for some other resource, not sell them like bread.” Enjolras crossed the few steps between them. “I can only suggest that you continue your dealings with them. Bring Bahorel with you, or even Courfeyrac. Find some other object of their desire that we can trade, but do not strain your own finances.”

A look of bewilderment crossed Combeferre’s features. “Its loss will have hardly any consequence to me, and I have lived well enough without it.” Enjolras shook his head. “Our work belongs to all of us, Combeferre, and should be worked for by all of us. I can hardly ask you to give up your well-earned funds and not demand the rest of the men of the same commitment; it will not sit well.” At this, Enjolras gave a resigned smile. “Besides, it is your money.”

“To do away with as I wish.”

“Hopefully to your advantage.”

“These are my negotiations to be cut short.”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras started, and there was a certain weariness in the way he said the name that Combeferre gave pause. A turmoil inside Enjolras had been building since Combeferre first mentioned using his prize as bribe money. Giving it away could hardly have improved the strength of Combeferre’s dedication. Indeed, he had already given far more, and few men could have been more deeply embroiled in the cause than he was. There was also the state of their dwindling revolving fund, and with its continued strain on the pockets of both students and workers, an additional sum of 700 francs was more than welcome.

Still, it did not seem right.

“It is hardly my place to tell you what to do,” Enjolras said, “which is why I will limit myself to asking you.” He grabbed hold of Combeferre’s elbow, and despite his usual eloquence, struggled for the right words. “I cannot deny that your sacrifice will aid our efforts, but for this instance, let me be the one to advise restraint. Your prize is a rare gift, and rather than give it up, I ask that you use it for your own welfare. To you, it may seem nothing, but I see it as an opportunity for you to improve yourself, and you who have always impressed on the importance of Progress must understand.” Combeferre regarded this, and he opened his lips to respond–

“Also, I am selfish.”

Whatever Combeferre’s response had been was lost at this confession. Selfish was not a word that he would describe Enjolras, and to hear the accusation from his own mouth rang a series of bells in his mind. His brows rose in concern, and sensing his alarm, Enjolras shook his head and rubbed a thumb against the arm he held. His finger repeated the motion as Combeferre grew somber. He continued.

“Your devotion cannot be questioned, but I would not wish for you to give so much of yourself early on–” he looked away as if fleeing from a thought “–for you to retreat from your pleasures as I have. When the time is right, we shall give everything, and for that we cannot extinguish ourselves too soon. For you, there are operas to see, dictionaries to correct, insects to sketch. Yes, I will need you at the most crucial moment,” his grip on Combeferre tightened, “but before that, I would want you to be happy.”

— - —

Enjolras stared as the rickety cart slowed to a halt in front of Combeferre’s building. When Combeferre had first turned his attention to the left, he had thought that he was referring to the burly worker carrying bundles of pale curtains – it was a reasonable investment, but not one that he thought Combeferre would indulge in – but as the man passed them without so much as a nod, it became clear that Combeferre was pointing to the cart.

The vehicle had seen better days; its spokes were threatening to give out, and the compartment was riddled with loose nails. The horse, eager that it was, was obviously taking its dying breath. The hunched coachman had greeted them with a grunt. Enjolras turned to Combeferre. “This,” he said as he inclined his head towards the miserable ensemble, “is your 700 francs?”

“My 600 francs,” Combeferre replied with an unusual amount of cheer. “You will remember that I had to repay Prouvaire.”

Enjolras gaped at his friend’s grin with mounting dread. He wondered if at his suggestion, Combeferre had developed an adventurous streak and decided to abandon his medical career for a prosperous life as a hackney driver. It was a foolish notion, but considering Combeferre’s far more otherworldly experiments in pursuit of the unknown, it was relatively mild. Enjolras was composing a lengthy address on the merits of prudence when Combeferre leapt into the back of cart and swept up a large blanket.

Oh.

There was a momentary rush of relief when Enjolras realized that it wasn’t the cart that Combeferre had purchased, but on glancing at the previously obscured item, his brows furrowed further in confusion. He looked to Combeferre for an answer but found him already studying his face.

The large object was a bed, newly polished by the gleam on its dark wood. It held no excesses or fanfare: the four legs were thin poles that rose three hands above the bedding; the headboard was low and rounded, the mattress soft and white against the platform. It seemed to be a fairly decent bed, but when Enjolras pressed a palm against the fabric cover, he was pleasantly surprised by the unusually smooth quality of the linen.

“The mattress contains various natural fibres,” Combeferre explained as Enjolras gripped the bedding, “cotton and wool among them, but there are also large amounts of horsehair and coconut fibre. The variety in materials keeps the mattress filled yet flexible and allows for more air through the fabric cover, making it softer and cooler.” He gave the bedding a satisfied pat. “Like spineless cacti, it becomes very useful in extremely dry weather.”

“And yet your mattress felt perfectly adequate last I laid on it. Why have you bought another one?”

Combeferre measured his words before responding, and when he did his voice was cropped and heavy: “It’s not for me.”

“For the hospital then? Why have you sent it here in your residence?”

“Enjolras.”

Combeferre was smiling fondly now, and he waited patiently for Enjolras to grasp his meaning. It was a rare instance that they did not completely understand one other, for they were so attuned to each other’s thoughts that at times they no longer needed speech. It was a new feeling to Combeferre, and he relished it with an odd sort of sentiment.  
The answer to his year-long dilemma had come to him at hearing Enjolras’s plea. He thought at great length at what made him happy. To Combeferre, happiness was home, a peaceful day of harvesting apples and watching Enjolras as he struggled to lift himself and reach the branches. Happiness was reading books on the floor, the fire burning heartily and Enjolras tapping a silent tune. Happiness was tea and late nights of debate, graceful razors and grasped elbows.

Happiness was all of that. And the unused space in his bedroom.

They held each other’s gaze, Combeferre from atop the cart and Enjolras on the pavement. In the streets, strangers passed in a flurry of fabric and motion, oblivious to the gravity of the moment that they were permitted to witness. Combeferre watched as the signs of realization emerged on Enjolras’s face: a slight widening of his eyes, a small rush of air between his lips. For a moment, there was complete understanding followed by complete surprise. Enjolras unknowingly tightened his hold on the mattress, overwhelmed by the honour and trust being bestowed on him. He was aware that Combeferre’s proposal was not a far cry from their present arrangement – in truth, it would make his current circumstances more convenient ¬– but to finally be confronted with it, to think of it as a real possibility rather than an idea jokingly raised once in a while, was a relief.

He became aware of the crumpled sheet beneath his fingers, and his palm smoothed the folds tenderly as he raised his head to Combeferre.

“If you wanted to share the rent, you need only to have asked.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr's MiniMis Fest. Originally titled "Prizes, Prudence and Possibilities". A few notes:
> 
> \- The cross-breeding of spiny and spineless cacti was pioneered by Luther A. Burbank (1849-1926), not Combeferre.  
> \- The annual allowance of a fairly well-off medical student is around 2,000 francs (A. Donné, 1831-4). Derive from that how much a bed and a bunch of vegetables are. I really don’t know.  
> \- Mattresses with fibres other than wool and cotton only came around in the mid-19th century.


End file.
